Falling Snow
by Catluver3
Summary: "Snow would have to do what Snow does best; Snow would have to fall." Quote from Mirror, Mirror. His name was not Snow. Nor was it Coriolanus. He was simply Birch Hale. Then they changed him. They burned him down, but little did they know the raging fire he would start. The second, untold rebellion. Follow the story of the boy who changed. The boy who changed everything.
1. The Clipping

**Me: Hey, everyone! This is Cat, back with another Hunger Games fanfiction. For this one, I wanted to do something unique, something hardly anyone's ever done before. So, while browsing the archive, I noticed that there are few stories related to Snow. So I came up with the idea to do his backstory. Most likely, someone's done that before. But not the way I plan to do it. Anyways, hope you enjoy!**

_**District 7 Herald- December 18th**_

** Father and Daughter Killed in Devastating Fire**

Fraser Hale (aged 48) and youngest child, Juniper Hale (aged 9) were killed yesterday evening in a devastating fire that rampaged through their home on Old North Road and caused substantial damage to the surrounding property.

"Definitely not an accident," said Peacekeeper Holt Foster when interviewed. "Whoever did it obviously didn't know how to pick up a crime scene; we found a pack of matches in a pile of smoking leaves outside the doorstep."

The fire started around 9:45 PM and burned for almost a full twenty minutes before a neighbor, Stephanie Lockwood, noticed the "acrid smell and gray smoke" from across the street and immediately dialed the Peacekeepers. They arrived within 5 minutes of the call and proceeded to put out the fire.

The house was burned to the ground, along with most of the family's belongings. The only survivor was the eldest son, Birch Hale, aged 12 just last weekend. He was found outside the house, light burns covering his body, and unconscious from smoke inhalation. He was taken to emergency medical care immediately. Birch is suspected as the arsonist. He has two charges on his record for arson, and another for shoplifting. Neighbors have described him as mysterious, rebellious, and dangerous.

No evidence has yet been found, other than the matches, but the Peacekeepers are still looking. Birch is expected to stay with family, Boyce and Laurel Hale for the next few months until a permanent living arrangement has been made. Updates for the case will be made as necessary.

_-Kimberly Arden, Senior Reporter_


	2. Prologue

_**Prologue **_

__Sunlight streamed over the horizon, pouring onto the yellowing grass; turning it a pure, liquid gold. Hues of red, pink, and orange echoed through the leaves of the overhanging willow; its spindly branches trembling in the harsh wind. The breeze stung against his bare arms, sending a shiver up his spine, and goosebumps racing up his skin. The air carried the scent of pine needles, the scent of home; fresh, clean, and reviving. In the distance he could hear the tree-cutting machines roaring through the forest, spewing black smoke into the early morning air.

The mottled marble against his hand was cold-he could feel the heat slowly leaking from his body-, yet he kept it there, almost as if relishing in the frigidness. It was smooth and graceful, shining in the dappled sunlight. It felt like freshly spun silk sliding across his skin.

He sighed deeply, breathing in the refreshing air. Moving slowly, he removed his hand from the slab of stone, using his hand to sweep back his short locks of brown hair, a few wispy threads remaining in front on his vision.

Too tired to care, he let it hang there, blowing forward with each breath he took. It was all he could do to focus on something else. Something other than the tombstone.

Maybe, just maybe, if he could pretend long enough, it would go away. Disappear. Sink back into the hard packed earth, leaving no trace of its subtle existence. Then he could go home. Away from this place. Away from the graveyard with the black iron gates, cutting him off from the outside world. Away from the willow tree, it leaves slick and shiny. And the stone slabs, springing up from the greenery around. The bright flowers, lilacs and tulips and roses, their sweet scent almost sickly. And away from the depression, the overhanging cloud of despair and anguish overhanging above the whole place.

No matter how hard he tried, he knew the truth. It would still be there. It would always be there. Even if someone were to take it and rip it out of the ground, his father and sister would still be dead. They would always be dead. And there would always be the hatred, the guilt, the fear...

He had to look eventually, and somewhere, deep inside of himself, he knew that. Maybe reading the words would help. Help get the facts drilled inside of his skull. Juniper and Fraser Hale were dead. Gone. Dead, gone, dead-

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the thoughts. Maybe it would help, reading the thick block letters carved into the slab of black marble. Maybe they would mean nothing to him and he could just move on...

Dropping to his knees, he averted his eyes from the tree, the flowers, everything around him, and slowly forced his gaze to the stone. The wind rustled through the branches again, and he shivered, grabbing his red windbreaker from where it lay on the dirt behind him and quickly slipped it on. He took a moment to relish in the warmth, then concentrated once again on the stone.

It was there. Sitting boldly on the hilltop, carrying the scent of freshly dug earth. It wasn't an apparition. Just to be sure, though, he pushed his arm forward, until it thudded gently against the gravestone. Engulfed by misery and remorse, he let it swing backwards dully. Dull as his eyes, tears sparkling in their corners.

He read the words fluidly, not stopping to sob or breathe, letting them all out in one inaudible whisper. "Fraser and Juniper Hale, Ages 48 and 9, Killed December 18th, 12th Year of the Games." His voice caught on the last few words, lips trembling from the horror of reality.

Turning his gaze toward the sky, he looked into the oncoming daylight. The hues of dawn were fading into a crystally blue, faint lines of silver mixed into the sky. He wanted to shout his troubles to the world, but instead, he whispered them, somehow finding the voice to speak. "Please, just let them come back. I was stupid and reckless and I'm-" His voice faded off for a moment. "I'm sorry." The tears that were threatening to cascade down his cheeks just a moment ago were coming now, a waterfall of emotions. Wet, shiny streaks were left in their place as they trickled down his face. Sobs racked his body.

He stayed this way for a moment, tears streaming down his cheeks, face buried in his hands. All was silent, other than his heavy breathing and the occasional painful sob. It seemed as though even the tree-cutters were still; sharing his pain. Finally, the tears stopped, leaving behind his wet, red-streaked face, and eyes with a red tint. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve, wiping away any trace of the tears in his mind.

Stumbling, he hurried to his feet, using his trembling arms as support. The sun was rising quickly, now halfway between the horizon and the center of the sky. It was still chilly, and even more so in the shade of the willow.

"Birch," he heard a voice whisper from behind him. He whirled around to reveal Willow, dressed in a yellow trench coat and black jeans. Her golden blonde hair fell in deep waves to her waist, knotted and tangled. Her ice-blue eyes stood out in the morning sun, staring angrily at him. Usually so lively and bright, they seemed to contrast her usual happiness; a dull glow visible in the blueness. Circles surrounded her eyes, purple and dark. Her face was red, from crying, he could tell.

"Willow," Birch replied simply, staring at her, trying to force the correct words to escape his lips. "Are you... okay?"

"No, Birch, I'm not," She practically shouted, anger filling her voice. He cringed away from her, quite frightened. "How could I be?" She gestured to the gravestone, one fluid movement. Willow took a step towards him, fear, hatred, and rage all somehow filling her gaze at once. Birch stepped back, running into the trunk of the willow tree. He let out a slight groan as a branch poked his back, jabbing into his shoulder blade. "You killed your family. How can you ask me if I'm okay?"

Sinking to the ground, Birch stared up at her in shock. His hands were shaking, his whole body was. He fingered a piece of mulch covering the dirt around the tree and fingered it, slowly letting it slide from hand to hand. He couldn't bear to look at her. How could she think such a thing? "You think I killed them." The words were tight and uncomfortable on his lips as he said them, practically to himself. "You think I killed them." This time it was louder, and he forced his eyes to travel to her form, standing just a few feet away from his body. He flinched back, seeing serious accusation in her eyes.

"I don't think so. At least I don't want to." Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes, but he watched her, more with hatred than with sympathy. "But..." Willow gestured frantically with her hands, throwing them up in the air. "There's evidence. And you've done it before."

"Yeah, but I've never... killed anyone..." The words hardly seemed to come from himself, and he had to force himself not to run to her, tell her the truth, sweep her up in his arms and never let go. "How... could you?" Birch was furious with her, practically shouting the last word.

Letting anger get the better of himself, he threw the large piece of mulch at her, hitting her left calf. It bounced off of her tan skin, landing next to the grave marker, leaving a red mark where it hit. A tiny drop of blood pooled where it had punctured her skin and dripped into the grass, turning it a shade of deep crimson.

"Goodbye, Birch," she whispered, rivers of tears-hurt and sorrow-streaming down her cheeks. "Goodbye forever."

She turned, marching away into the distance, a deep silence falling over Birch. He, too, was crying. "Goodbye."


End file.
